


someone said true love was dead (and i'm bound to fall for you)

by halloweenieroast



Series: no man could truly tame a wolf [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:45:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halloweenieroast/pseuds/halloweenieroast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if AU in which the Tyrell's plan isn't foiled and Sansa marries Willas. Both are somewhat bitter and scarred by their pasts and both are quite terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	someone said true love was dead (and i'm bound to fall for you)

**Author's Note:**

> I feel really late and guilty hopping on the Swill train but these two are so unbearably wonderful and there just needs to be more fic, so I took it upon myself to write some? Huge thanks to the people who already write fics for this beautiful pairing because I've gotten a lot of hints from your nuanced, clever writing.
> 
> Also, where I went with Willas' injury here - I've chosen to make it certainly not as severe as it could be. He relies on a cane, and while walking on it would be very painful/slow/difficult/unbalanced, it's not impossible. He can bend it with some effort, so sitting isn't beyond him. Some fics he's paralysed in his leg, or unable to bend/move/feel it, but I've taken the easy way out and made it not too heinous.

Willas Tyrell is a great deal handsomer than Sansa first thought, ever dared to imagine. Something in his presence is tall and proud, despite his dependency on the ornate cane by his side. He boasts the same thick, chestnut-bronze-gold head of hair as his siblings, and while his eyes only meet hers briefly, she fancies she sees a little of Loras in them. Her mind is buzzing faster than she's used to, it makes her both dizzy and elated. She does her best to calm herself as the heir to Highgarden kisses her gloved hand chastely and smiles tightly, but warmly enough.

Gods, Sansa knows all too well the dangers of high expectations, and she does her best to purge them from her mind. She imagines Willas' jaw clenching hard, sees in her mind his fists balling into angry weapons.  _He's not a king_ , Sansa thinks,  _he can hit me himself if he likes_.

And then there's that hissing voice in her ear,  _of course he will strike you, you stupid girl. You are a dull, a lackwit, a craven. There are no true knights waiting for you_.

She finds it hard to picture Willas striking anyone, though, not least his wife. She doesn't know whether it's his gentle smile or the slight, sad lean in his stance.

* * *

Willas' sleep is worse than usual that night. He knows he should be reveling in the beauty of his soon-to-be-bride, planning ways to court her and learn which flowers and songs and stories are her favourites, but all that manifests in his mind are insecurities, the reasons for her to mislike him and pine instead after brave Garlan, handsome Loras.

 _Gods, I am a bitter creature_ , he thinks. He knows that if Loras hadn't taken his vows - well, father's best son would have all the potential brides in Westeros, wouldn't he? Even his Sansa.

Not his. Just Sansa.  _Never yours_ ,  _Willas, not yet, not least after she inevitably confesses her disgust for you_.  _I am the heir to Highgarden, a lord, but not a_ Lord _yet. Not like my brother. Seven Hells, no, always second, always behind_. He wonders if Sansa is his family's way of a compensation for leaving him behind on their journey to the capital under the guise of needing his leadership back home.

He falls asleep with a dull pain in his head and the taste of acrimony in his mouth. 

* * *

 'Good morning, m'lady, I trust you slept well?'

'Mmm,' Sansa murmurs sleepily, rubbing her eyes awake. She pushes herself up slowly onto her elbows, blinking as her eyes adjust to the morning light. It's somewhat jarring finding herself in these lush chambers without a single Lannister in sight. She finds herself almost pining after familiarity, but not the regal golds and blood reds of King's Landing - no, despite herself she still wishes she was back in her chambers in Winterfell, all cool blues and slate greys, comforting furs to shield against biting wind. She glances around her chambers here. Lofty curtains are drawn about her bed, which is made with layers of thin green sheets and a folded white blanket at the foot of it. No one seems to have alerted Highgarden of the oncoming winter, and it still rests in lazy heat, sunlight warming everything it touches and night bringing soft, cool relief. She slept on luxurious pillows stuffed with down and embroidered with twining flowers.

Her handmaiden, a slight, pretty girl who can't be much older than she is, ventures toward the bed with a goblet dripping at the sides with condensation. 

'Drink, please, m'lday, you look as pale as a sheet.' 

Sansa takes a tentative sip out of politeness. The drink is sharply sweet, she tastes soft fruit and lemon and mint. 'This is delicious,' she says, this time not merely out of courtesy. 

The handmaiden smiles demurely. 'We can make more, if you like - just some fruit juices. Would you like to break your fast with Willas this morning?"

Sansa's stomach lurches and she does her best to hide a gasp behind another sip of her drink. She swallows, throat suddenly tight. 'Yes,' she manages, 'of course.'

Margaery arrives soon enough to aid her with dressing. 'What would you like to wear?' she asks, and she just  _laughs_  when Sansa asks what would  _Willas_  like for her to wear. 'Never too fashion conscious, dear Willas,' she giggles, thumbing through Sansa's wardrobe, but Margaery doesn't understand the way Joffrey would be so cruel if Sansa ever dared to wear something he misliked.

She just scowls at the dresses in front of her, though, paying no mind to - or maybe not noticing - Sansa's absent gaze or nervous hands. 'None of these dresses are very Highgarden, I'm afraid. Violet - fetch a dress from my chambers, please? Maybe that lovely blue one with the golden flowers. We still want a little Stark in dear Sansa.' 

Sansa slumps on the bed miserably as the handmaiden scurries off dutifully. 

'Sansa, what  _ever_  is the matter? Willas may not have the keenest eye for fashion but if there's one thing he loves dearly on a woman it's a pretty smile. Come, tell me what's wrong.'

Sansa sniffs, feeling stupid. She opens her mouth, tries to articulate her worries, but none of them are clear to her - they're just  _there._  She settles on the one that's the easiest to explain. 'I can't wear your dress, lady Margaery,' she begins, ignoring the way the older girl rolls her eyes at  _lady._  'You're older than I, taller and more - more blossomed. It will only make me look silly.' 

Margaery smiles a pitiful smile that makes Sansa feel even duller. She sits next to her on the bed and places one slender hand over her own. ' _Don't_ , Sansa. I received the dress for my fourteenth name day, when I daresay I looked an awful lot like you. Eventually, you will be more -  _blossomed_ ,' she smiles, and even Sansa has to giggle at her own words. 'But for now-'

Violet arrives in the doorway, holding in both arms a beautiful affair of silk, lace and flowers.

'- you'll just have to appreciate the beauty you already have.' She kisses the top of Sansa's head, and she decides that maybe things won't be so hard if Margaery is there to hold her hand.  _Sisters,_ she thinks.

* * *

Willas stands dutifully when Sansa Stark appears at Marg's side, whispering behind her hand and eyeing him carefully. 

'My lady,' he offers, trying his best to not look as crippled as they both know he is. 

'My lord,' she replies as Marg leaves her side grinning like a cat who's got the cream. She steps forward, takes his hand and lets him brush his lips against her knuckle lightly. She sits opposite him and, while she quickly regains her cool composure, he notices her eyes widen at the table laden with food. He knows, polite little thing that she is, that she is never going to be the first to sample something, so he picks up the ripest peach from the fruit bowl and holds it out to her.

'Have you ever tried a fresh peach, Sansa?'

She shakes her head. 'Sometimes preserved slices in oils, my lord, or crushed in syrup. Never whole or fresh.'  

He hands it to her and watches her survey the blushing pinks and yellows of its skin, feel the soft fuzz that covers it. 'Careful,' he smiles, helping himself to a crisp apple and slicing it with his dagger, 'there's a stone in the middle that smarts if you bite into it.'

Sansa takes a delicate bite and and makes a wordless exclamation of surprise as juices run down her chin, sweet and sticky. 

'I'm awfully sorry, my lord, oh-' she wipes at herself with a napkin, blushing furiously. 

'My lady,' he says, half trying to imagine the kind of courtesies they must have put her through at King's Landing, 'that's what peaches tend to do to you. It's alright. Often as children my brother Garlan and I would sneak off into the orchards and stuff ourselves full of stonefruit, even though we were forbidden. We never knew why we were always caught out afterwards. Of course, we were blissfully unaware of the fact that our faces were half-drenched in the fruit's juices, such was our enthusiasm to eat as many as possible as quickly as we could.'

He sees Sansa's eyes light up with relief and amusement, but she only titters lightly, a careful laugh that's obviously not her own, reflecting only the tiniest part of the glimmer of humour in those blue eyes. 

An immeasurable sadness comes over Willas, and he has no idea why. He knows that the royal court has broken her down and built in her place a dollishly-perfect, flinching and fearful young woman. He knows brokenness. 

It is in that moment that he decides that he's going to heal Sansa Stark if his life depends on it, and maybe some of himself in the process.

* * *

The wedding is rushing at her all too quickly and Sansa is  _terrified._ So much of her time is spent familiarising herself with every other lord and lady in the area, all desperate to win favours with the future Lady of Highgarden, she scarcely has any time to get to know Willas himself. She knows that he loves reading, yes, adores his hawks and hounds and horses, and would do anything for his siblings, especially Margaery - but she also senses an underlying sense of something like resentment, dulled over the years, but still there. She supposes it's the same kind of feeling Bran used to have towards Robb or Jon, riding into battle with able bodies and their father's approval. 

He's sweet, he really is, sending her flowers, remembering her favourite foods. He presents her with a huge bunch of peach blossoms one day when he takes her picnicking under the citrus trees, smiling wryly as she blushes at the memory of her last peach. She learns to take his elbow so he may walk faster, to wear her hair in braids because he mentions how comely she looks with it like that. King's Landing has not entirely left her, though, and she remains wary constantly, careful to never speak ill of the royal family or reveal too much about herself. Willas seems both intrigued and dismayed by her selective tongue, but he doesn't pry for details, which she is grateful for.

The morning of the wedding, both Violet and Margaery are there as she wakes, smiling excitedly. They usher her into a hot bath scented with fruits and lemon and mint - the first scents she encountered in Highgarden, she recalls -and comb out her hair, scrub her skin pink and raw, rub oils into her wrists and behind her ears. Margaery passes her a vial of lavender oil as she steps out of the bath and into soft, absorbent fabric to dry her.

'Put this on the inside of your thighs,' she whispers, though no one is around to hear her but them. 

'For tonight,' giggles Violet, and the two of them laugh away as a wave of nausea overcomes Sansa and she has to lean against the bath. She never even spared a thought about the bedding. Willas is handsome, yes, but never lewd or suggestive like Joffrey. _Could_ he even-? She remembers several times in court when the Tyrell brothers came into conversation, japes had been made about the eldest boy's virility, but that was when he had no relevance to her life at all and she had paid them no mind. On top of all this, the only real understanding she has of bedding, aside from the rudimentary knowledge she gained from the whispers of serving girls years ago, was the vile things Joffrey would whisper in her ear when he was feeling particularly cruel. ' _I'll fuck you like a dog, Sansa,'_ he had hissed, ' _you won't walk for a week.'_ Sometimes, if he was angrier at her than usual, he would talk of hitting her with whatever was at hand.

' _I'll have you bruised and bleeding_ ,' he had smiled foully, ' _and I promise you, no man would have you any other way_.'

She wonders if Willas will have her that way.

* * *

Willas' breath hitches in his throat when he sees her, his wonderful, mysterious Sansa, making her way towards him. Her copper hair hangs in a heavy braid down one side of her neck, woven thickly through with select blooms, some fully flowered and some barely opening, that creep up her hair and form a soft, prettily coloured crown around her head. She is draped heavily in a fur-lined grey cloak, emblazoned with pearls and even lace - Marg's doing, he's sure. _It's just like Sansa_ , he muses, _pretty and delicate and intricate, yes, but still a wolf_ , _still stormy grey and fierce white_.

* * *

For just a fraction of a second, when no cloak is around her shoulders and she is bound to no family, Sansa feels so light she could fly.

* * *

Willas' hands tremble when he clasps the golden rose around her neck, the green velvet and cloth-of-gold surely a weight around her shoulders in more ways than one. When he takes her cool, pale face in his hands lightly and and presses his lips against hers chastely, as he would a sister or daughter, she shakes. He wants to take her hand and walk her away from the expectant faces around them, someplace where they will never be bothered and she can spend all the time alone she wants, needs, they can live on peaches and spring water, but no -

No, they make their way to the hall, Sansa sits tersely by his side and politely sips wine and makes conversation with the nobles who are already enamoured by her, eager to see her rule Highgarden with him. She blushes at Garlan's tipsy flirtations and Willas glares daggers at him because she's  _his,_ his to protect and to love and to heal now.

It crosses his mind too often that she may not want him. Margaery had, a few nights ago, told him of the way she confessed Prince Joffrey's hatred and vile treatment of her, and while he knows that she has noble brothers he worries that she thinks  _all_ men are like the prince she once loved so. He feels anger knot tight in his throat when he wonders who could treat such an innocent creature so horrendously. 

She flinches even when he brushes her  _hand,_ gods, and her smile may be fooling their guests but it's not fooling him.

The look of terror on her face when bawdy men start to grab at her for the bedding ceremony makes his heart sink.

* * *

They left Sansa in her smallclothes, nothing more. She knows how it's supposed to happen, so she starts to work at removing her smallclothes when Willas enters. He closes the door softly, leaving the light and noise behind him, and suspends the two of them in silence and dim candlelight. 

He smiles, gestures towards the plate of fruit and pitcher of wine by the bed. 'If you fancy some,' he offers, 'by all means, help yourself.'

He's trying so very hard, she knows, but Sansa still feels her stomach knot and she knows that if she opens her mouth only a sob might come out. So, tight-lipped and shaking, she just lowers her head and manages to half-whisper, 'no, thank you, my lord.'

'Willas,' he says, somewhat bemused. 'Willas.'

She remembers saying the name into her pillow,  _Willas Willas Willas,_ almost as good as  _Loras Loras Loras,_ and suddenly a wave of remorse crashes into her, leaving her breathless. _He is kind, and he is fair_ , Sansa thinks, _maybe it will be worth it, the beating and the blood. Maybe he will be chivalrous enough under the eyes of others, and the days in public will make up for the night_ s.

 _No man would have you any other way_ , Joffrey had said, but Joffrey was terrible, even Sansa knows that. Willas is gentle enough that he might save his beatings for when no one else can see.

Sansa prays he will be merciful enough.

* * *

Willas makes his way over to the dresser slowly, as if Sansa might run like a hare if he moves too suddenly, or snap in half if he is not gentle enough. He picks up a comb and pretends not to see her flinch out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he makes his way to the bed and sits down next to her tentatively, setting his cane aside. 

'You have such wonderful hair,' he breathes, and it's not a word of lie. He picks the flowers stippled through her hair gently away, finally unweaving the delicate crown of roses, daises, violets, wildflowers, and fruit blossoms from the top of her head.

'Thank you, Willas,' she smiles half-heartedly. Her eyes dart around nervously and she clutches the blankets to her porcelain chest. He doesn't try to make her reveal herself, doesn't even let his gaze wander there, though it's tempting. He'd been to King's Landing twice before, only for a week each time, and found enough perversion there to last him a lifetime. She doesn't need another set of prying eyes.

He unties her plait and runs his fingers softly through her hair, unbinding the thick locks from one another, and then steadily begins to comb them out, remembering evenings spent caring for baby Marg. 'Is this alright, Sansa?' he asks softly.

She seems almost startled. He guesses Joffrey was never one to care for how his pleasures affected others. 'Y-yes,' she blinks, shaking her head softly so that the waves of auburn fall more evenly, cresting at her shoulderblades and framing her shoulders and breasts beautifully. He doesn't say anything about the way he can count the knobs of her spine, or the mottled, fingertip-size bruises on her waist, or the thin scars that disrupt the taut, white expanse of her back. He wouldn't exactly be the best person to question the injuries and marks of another, though he makes a note to himself to slaughter the man who did this. 

Though he's not quite ready or skilled enough to be the next Kingslayer, he supposes.

* * *

Sansa's hair is soft and smooth, and she's almost relaxed enough to close her eyes and pretend it's her mother combing it out. She was always on the receiving end of comments about how she was just the picture of Catelyn, the same hair and eyes and fire inside. She remembers that her mother was going to marry a handsome knight, just like her, but was then promised to his brother instead. That brother, of course, was her father. She never really admired her parents' relationship - loving, yes, and fruitful, but it wasn't passionate or brave or spontaneous like those of songs. 

 _No_ , she corrects herself, _it was brave_. _My mother married a man she didn't love, full of empty promises and memories of his brother -_ _and she grew to love him, she bore his children, she survived in a place so unlike her home_. 

Sansa decides to be like her mother, and wonders if Willas will be like her father. They certainly have their similarities - concerned with duty, yes, honourable and at times stoic, but always meaning well. There's an underlying wit to Willas that reminds her of her father.  She wonders if she will bear him a son like Robb or Rickon or Bran (who was also rather like him, smart and serious-faced), or daughters like herself or Arya. They might have her Tully locks of fire or bright blue eyes, or they might by willowy and woodsy like Tyrells. 

But then, Willas' hand is at the small of her back, just ghosting, all fingertips and no palm, but she jumps anyway.

'I'm sorry, Sansa,' he says quietly, drawing his arm back like he's been snapped at by an animal. 

'No,' she replies sorrowfully, 'it has to be proper.' She puts on her brave face, wonders if her mother was scared like this. 'Please.'

He seems so unsure, though, not quite seeing past her courtesies, so she manages a smile. 'I want it. Please.'

* * *

Sansa can lie through her pretty teeth all she wants, but Willas _knows_ she doesn't want it. He feels sick when he reaches for her thigh anyway.

* * *

Sansa is doing her best, she's trying so hard. She closes her eyes, hoping it just looks like pleasure, and thinks of the millions of women who have been bedded before. She should be grateful he's handsome, rich, a lord.  _I'm lucky,_ she thinks,  _Willas is comely and gallant, Willas will make me happy, Willas won't beat me in front of his people_.

When his hand brushes the inside of her thigh, she begins to cry. She can hear Joffrey in her head,  _bruised and bleeding bruised and bleeding bruised and bleeding_ and before she can calm herself she yells out _stop, Joffrey, please_ , before she even has time to realise that it's _Willas_ and that he  _has_ stopped. 

'I'll kill him,' he says, and there's something in the calmness of his voice that makes her immediately understand that he's angry, burning inside. 'I'll kill him for making you this way.' 

She can't stop crying because she just feels so pathetic, and she should have kept her stupid mouth shut and her eyes dry. Willas softly wipes her cheek with the back of his hand and she doesn't flinch away this time.

'Dress, Sansa,' he murmurs, offering a half-smile. 'Let's get our rest for tomorrow.'

'You haven't-' she attempts, words broken up by hiccuping sobs. 'You haven't bedded me, they'll all  _know -_ '

He reaches over to the bedside drawers, shifting himself uneasily, and pulls a nightdress from the top drawer. She briefly wonders, embarrassed, if he knew this was going to happen and planned ahead. She slips it over her head gratefully anyway. 

' _Rest,'_ he assures her, placing a hand on her arm. 'If they have a look at the sheet, we'll tell them I was so romantic as to draw a bath for us to share, or perhaps  _you_ were so eager the bed couldn't wait and we tried the floor, despite my protests,' he grins, nodding at his weak leg.

She laughs through her tears despite herself and lies back against the pillows, filled with both gratitude and confusion. She wonders when he's going to snap, act out against her like Joffrey. For now, though, she dries her eyes and pushes her anxieties away. She's thankful for sleep, even more thankful for the mercy of her husband. Mercy is a precious commodity now.

* * *

She still sleeps as far away as she can, curled into a pillow on the edge of the bed. 

 _So brave_ , is all Willas can think. He always thought he knew cruelty, knew jokes at another's expense, knew how it felt to be at the mercy of another. But not like Sansa does, never, and the little maps of bruises on her sides and the hard scars that ridge the small of her back prove this to him. 

He thought he would want more, as enamoured with her beauty as he is, but he feels no thirst for her, not yet. When she's ready, maybe, but for now he is content to see her sleep with no worries of survival, no fear to plague her. 

She is more a Stark than he has ever given her credit for. 


End file.
